Bill said it wouldn’t bear thinking of, and, the next place they came to he said some rather ’ard things of the man who’d persuaded ’im to take the pledge. He ’ad two or three more there, and then they began to see that it was beginning to have an effect on ’im. The first one that noticed it was Ginger Dick. Bill ’ad just lit ’is pipe, and as he threw the match down he ses: “I don’t like these ’ere safety matches,” he ses. “Don’t you, Bill?” ses Ginger. “I do, rather.” “Oh, you do, do you?” ses Bill, turning on ’im like lightning; “well, take that for contradictin’,” he ses, an’ he gave Ginger a smack that nearly knocked his ’ead off. It was so sudden that old Sam and Peter put their beer down and stared at each other as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. Then they stooped down and helped pore Ginger on to ’is legs agin and began to brush ’im down. “Never mind about ’im, mates,” ses Bill, looking at Ginger very wicked. “P’r’aps he won’t be so ready to give me ’is lip next time. Let’s come to another pub and enjoy ourselves.” Sam and Peter followed ’im out like lambs, ’ardly daring to look over their shoulder at Ginger, who was staggering arter them some distance behind a ’olding a handerchief to ’is face. “It’s your turn to pay, Sam,” ses Bill, when they’d got inside the next place. “Wot’s it to be? Give it a name.” “Three ’arf pints o’ four ale, miss,” ses Sam, not because ’e was mean, but because it wasn’t ’is turn. “Three wot?” ses Bill, turning on ’im. “Three pots o’ six ale, miss,” ses Sam, in a hurry. “That wasn’t wot you said afore,” ses Bill. “Take that,” he ses, giving pore old Sam a wipe in the mouth and knocking ’im over a stool; “take that for your sauce.” Peter Russet stood staring at Sam and wondering wot Bill ud be like when he’d ’ad a little more. Sam picked hisself up arter a time and went outside to talk to Ginger about it, and then Bill put ’is arm round Peter’s neck and began to cry a bit and say ’e was the only pal he’d got left in the world. It was very awkward for Peter, and more awkward still when the barman came up and told ’im to take Bill outside. “Go on,” he ses, “out with ’im.” “He’s all right,” ses Peter, trembling; “we’s the truest-’arted gentleman in London. Ain’t you, Bill?” Bill said he was, and ’e asked the barman to go and hide ’is face because it reminded ’im of a little dog ’e had ’ad once wot ’ad died. “You get outside afore you’re hurt,” ses the barman. Bill punched at ’im over the bar, and not being able to reach ’im threw Peter’s pot o’ beer at ’im. There was a fearful to-do then, and the landlord jumped over the bar and stood in the doorway, whistling for the police. Bill struck out right and left, and the men in the bar went down like skittles, Peter among them. Then they got outside, and Bill, arter giving the landlord a thump in the back wot nearly made him swallow the whistle, jumped into a cab and pulled Peter Russet in arter ’im. [Illustration]